Joining the Dots
by TheLastLynx
Summary: While Robin & Matthew make their road-trip up to Masham, Robin is caught up in her past and conflicted about her future... Fic starts (pretty much) where Career of Evil ends and attempts to fill to in the blanks of all (the clues) JKR left us in the events leading up to the infamous wedding scene. Edit: After BBC's CoE Ep 2 this turned out to be AU (fic was first published on A03)
1. Chapter 1

**You are all I have these days,**  
 **shake it up and run away**  
 **With the night squabbling behind you**

 **Joining the Dots, Arctic Monkeys**

All the way up North Robin sat in the passenger seat, feeling as though everything was happening to an entirely other person. While a gleeful Matthew maneuvered the Land Rover, Robin barely managed to keep her face neutral. Exhausted of the façade she had been putting up the last couple of days when in the presence of her soon–to–be–husband, she had given up faking happiness for now. She just sat there. Not even looking at the passing blur of green and white and grey, the familiar rattle of the old car filled the space between the couple and saved her from conversation. Matt turned on the radio.

Was this how one felt on the brink of getting married? Bereft of the job she so loved, a profession she had always dreamed of doing, her wedding seemed to her almost like a consolation prize. But that was her reality now; Matthew was all that was left her and she was about to become his.

Tall and handsome; ever since they had been a couple in their late teens, since before Robin's life had changed so dramatically, marrying Matthew had once seemed to her like a dream come true, how she'd envisioned her future. She remembered how perfect their engagement had been, almost two years ago under the wings of Eros in the dark blue London night on Piccadilly Circus, him getting down on one knee, her tearful and utterly surprised, accepting, touched by his show of spontaneity and uncharacteristic public show of affection.

Now, she couldn't seem to feel anything but an ever–growing sense of emptiness.

In fairness, so much had changed for her. Everything had changed. On the day following her engagement, she had stepped into an office of a private investigator, unaware that there, finally, she would be able to pursue her secret, her true life's ambition, carefully kept to herself, for others thought her too timid, too broken for a profession as dangerous as hers had been.

There it was – had been. Just five days ago, this dream of becoming a detective had come to a sudden end, cut short by her pivotal insecurity, that she was, after all, not a true professional. She had always dreaded this, not least because Matthew had been a constant reminder of her own inadequacy, continuously discarding her dream job as a child's wish. And, in truth, she could never have hoped to reach up to the level of experience and audacity that her partner, Cormoran Strike, had amounted during his years as an officer in the SIB. Militarily trained and apathetic to the horrors a shaken Robin had been exposed to in recent months for the first time, he had been totally and utterly unforgiving when Robin had (unbeknownst to him) up–rooted their investigation of the Shacklewell Ripper a week ago. To save one little girl from the hands of a child rapist and – according to Strike – supposed serial murderer.

Successful and proud though she was of saving a child – and a mother – from the monster Noel Brockbank, Robin could not stand the idea that her blundering action, her desperate need to save a girl from the horrifying experience she herself had endured – not as a child, but as a student at university – might be the reason another would have to suffer, might even die. As far as she could tell, the eluded Brockbank had not yet been obtained by the authorities. This pained her deeply. She had been dead certain that that disgusting man couldn't have been the Shacklewell Ripper, it just didn't fit the profile. How terribly wrong she had been!

Her hand itched to grab her phone tucked away in her jacket pocket, but she dared not reveal in the presence of Matthew how she – even now – was still obsessed with the case that she had not been able to see to an end.

 _"Quick and clean, gross misconduct"._

Even now, his words were still ringing in her ears; she could still see him, Strike, towering over her, the harshness of his face she had come to know as thoughtful, guarded, or – when they were alone together – mischievous and care–free even, set into stone, dark eyes hard and glaring.

She briefly opened the window to let in the soft summer air. The car rattled even louder and Matt turned up the volume.

As they turned onto the M1, a buoyant Matthew, ignorant of the gloomy thoughts of his fiancé and gleeful in the face of the upcoming wedding (and a life that was finally, mercifully free of that bastard Cormoran Strike), started singing a Daniel Bedingfield love song.

"I gotta have a reason to wake up in the morning. You used to be the one that put a smile on my face. There are no words to describe how I miss you and I miss you every day yeah."

Robin instantly recognised the tune from the year they both had started university, the year before _it_ had happened, the year before she'd been raped; the year before – as she now knew – Matthew had started an affair with Sarah Shadlock, because "it had been a difficult time for me, too, you know"; one year before her world had been thrown into the chaos that – even now – held her in its stale grip, ripping through the life she had so determinedly built for herself, against all odds and to everyone's disbelief. But this life was no more. She felt the tears burning in her eyes, afraid she could not bear it any longer.

"Could you not sing that?" she managed.

"Sorry," Matthew said, startled. "It seemed appropriate".

"Maybe it's got happy memories for you", muttered Robin, desperate to keep the tears stinging in her eyes from flowing. She turned to look out of the window. Not wanting to let Matthew see how deeply she was affected. "But it hasn't for me".

A sensation of guilt briefly chased away her desperation. She had lied to Matthew. Connected to unhappy memories at uni though it was, these were not the reasons why the song had made her eyes water.

 _I gotta have a reason to wake up in the morning. You used to be the one that put a smile on my face. There are no words to describe how I miss you and I miss you every day yeah._

The lyric Matthew had just sung had struck a chord somewhere deep inside of her, resonating with her, reflecting her core, had all of a sudden made her painfully aware of the full extent of emotions she so desperately had managed to hide from him, from herself. Underneath all the guilt and desperation and anger that she had built up against Cormoran - because he so swiftly had replaced her, because he didn't think of her as an equal, but as an assistant, a mere "Girl Friday", because he had cast her aside, although they had shared so much together - in an instant, she understood the true reason for the overwhelming, suffocating emptiness. It was, in truth, not the lost job she lamented, important though it had been to her. She was mourning the loss of a friend: she desperately missed Strike.

 _You used to be the one that put a smile on my face._

Sitting next to the gleefully unaware Matthew in the Land Rover, she could not help but think back to the last time she had sat in this car, driving northward. Those had been good times, she remembered sadly, when she and Cormoran still had been friends, colleagues, in pursuit of Brockbank on their way up to Barrow–in–Furness. Hours spent amicably sitting next to each other, at times sharing thoughts and observations, at times remaining in perfect silence, but always enjoying the other's company.

Strange, Robin mused, that the memory of those days together with Cormoran were not tainted by the fact that her relationship of nine years had just crumpled, that she had broken the engagement, that she had been alone. But it was not loneliness or grief that she had felt then. Cormoran could always make her laugh, even at a time that ought to have been a time of sadness. She remembered smiling and laughing, untroubled, both focused on the job, doing what they loved so much.

Now, sitting here next to her happy fiancé in the Land Rover, she felt her desolation more acutely than ever before. Not once had she been this depressed during the excursion up to Barrow with Strike, even at the loss of her engagement ring, at the loss of Matthew. Should she not feel happy now that after months of bickering and fighting her relationship had been mended? That, obstacle after obstacle overcome, they were finally taking the next step, leaving the past behind, becoming husband and wife at last? And yet, she only felt the ever expanding hollowness that was the desperate longing for the person she felt had been a better friend to her, than Matthew ever had been in their shared nine years together.

 _There are no words to describe how I miss you and I miss you every day yeah._

The unexpected truth of the sentiment overwhelmed her, hitting her with a blunt force that almost had her gasping for air.

Scenes she had pushed back for so long rushed to the front of her mind in sudden clarity: She remembered being flushed when Cormoran had found it obvious that Matthew wanted to get back together; she thought of her uneasiness when she waited for Strike outside the massage parlour; she recalled her pang of jealousy when he had called his girlfriend Elin, and her relief at his matter–of–fact–tone when he spoke to her; and she thought of lying five rooms away from Cormoran in the Travelodge, imagining –or hoping– he would knock on her door...

But the moment had passed, and all hope that anything might have come from the feelings – feelings, that had slowly formed undetectable roots under the cover of mutual comradery and respect, had sprouted during these sorrowful months of a failing relationship, that had finally flourished in spite of constant denial and the sheer impossibility of it all – must perish at last.

Painfully aware of Matthew, and anxious not to show any indication of her earth–shattering revelation, she concentrated on the passing landscape, the flashing of green fields and the blue summer sky smiling down on her.

When she was finally certain that her voice would not betray her, she tried for some normalcy, hoping that if she could not be happy herself, at least Matthew's glee might do something to chase away this choking sorrow for a lost friend, for something that would never happen. After all, Cormoran was gone for good, and Matthew was here beside her.

"That doesn't mean you can't sing something else", she managed.

"That's alright," a jovial Matt replied.

Robin chased away her slight irritation at his unwaveringly good spirits; perhaps embracing his happiness would hold back the tears that kept creeping up and threatened to ruin her carefully constructed outward appearance of equanimity.

They finally stopped for a coffee at Donington park services. Robin, upon sitting down and taking off her jacket at Marks & Spencer's, realised that there was a Travelodge right next door in the service complex. Unwittingly – maybe because she was reminded of their stop at Hilton Park services – her mind travelled back to the night with Cormoran at the Travelodge in Barrow. The memory made her tears swell, and she hastily excused herself to the bathroom, longing for a quiet place to cry.

Sitting there, finally alone, in the bathroom stall, she let go and capitalised on her first – and probably last chance all weekend – to weep. For several long moments she let her desperation overwhelm her, grip her, finding relief in the solitude and anonymity of the service station bathroom.

Now, she knew. She knew that her ambiguity towards Matthew, her hesitation to break up their engagement for good, had not been because she was unsure if she could forgive Matt. It was not due to the fact that she was afraid of being alone. It was not because she had lost her job. It was because – and she looked the realisation square in the face for the very first time – she was in love with Cormoran.

Cormoran, who was still together with Elin; Cormoran, who had barely ever shown interest in her as a woman; Cormoran, whose only focus was a professional relationship; and who had, when she had dealt a potentially lethal blow to his crumpling business, brutally rejected her as an enemy. He had gotten rid of her, mercilessly severing their connection, the quiet understanding and utter acceptance that Robin had felt was unique and special and so unlike every other bond she had ever experienced before.

As she let the tears stream down her face, Robin slowly came to realise that there was only one way forward. She knew that Cormoran, once he had decided to end a relationship, would not look back, would stick to his resolution. Robin had witnessed his break–up with Charlotte, his otherworldly beautiful girlfriend of sixteen years. Charlotte had devised scheme upon scheme to get Cormoran to come back to her, publicly declaring her engagement to another man, even taunting him with pictures of her as a miserable bride. Still, Strike had never wavered, had never moved back from the finality of his decision that their relationship was over, and that he must move forward.

So, there was no going back. After all, Robin's desperate hopes that all had been a mistake, were long dissipated by the newspaper ad for a new assistant that Matthew had presented her with, triumphantly relishing in the public finality of Cormoran's exit out of his fiancée's life.

And had she not made a similar choice herself? Had she not chosen to stay with Matthew? Robin was resolved: she must emulate the same resoluteness she so admired in Strike. She must bury these misguided feelings, battle the constant stream of tears that would have to be the only outlet of the overwhelming emotion desperate to surface, and think of the weekend ahead.

She owed it to her parents, especially to Linda, who had been a never wavering source of support during the last few weeks, months even. Linda, who had more than once offered her a out; had made it clear that she didn't _have_ to marry Matthew, that she loved her daughter either way, no matter what she decided.

Robin thought of the glittering pair of Jimmy Choos she had returned to save Angel, and remembered with a start that she still needed to buy replacements to go with her dress. The thought of something to do sobered her slightly. Confident of her acting skills that had time and time again had served her well during an investigation, she was sure she could make it through this weekend. But still – maybe because the thought of Angel reminded her how badly the plan that backfired on her, maybe because she was so desperately trying to suppress her newly discovered emotions, or maybe because she had never felt something so deep, so all–consuming ever before – she struggled to compose herself.

When she finally reached a moment of stillness, she embraced the thought that she was the one that had decided long ago that she had to – no, that she could be happy with Matthew. All she had to do was to take one step at a time, going forwards along the path that had already been laid out before her in months of tedious preparation.

Coming out of the bathroom, anxious that her face and eyes might betray some sign of her private moments of sorrow, Robin was relieved to see Matthew phoning someone, the dark screen of her mobile in his right hand. Still caught up in the aftershocks of her sudden, world–changing realisation, she did not hesitate to give Matthew her passcode. Relieved to have a few extra moments of privacy, Robin felt a moment of regret for letting Matt go with her phone. She was desperate to look up any news of the Shacklewell ripper. _Not to see any news about Cormoran_ , she assured herself, _I just want to know if Brockbank has been caught_.

She sat there, lost in her thoughts, wondering what the Church connection could be that Cormoran had mentioned when...

Robin got up and went outside, waiting next to the Land Rover, breathing in the air and preparing herself for the fuss that would start in just a few hours and would guide her every move forward. She mustn't think of Cormoran anymore. Matthew was all she had left now.


	2. Chapter 2

**"Mirrors are the basis of beauty,  
Give rise to self love or self pity"**

Blue Öyster Cult, Mirrors

The wedding day had arrived and Robin was glad for the frantic action of last–minute preparations that kept her mind busy and distracted. For those surrounding her, the morning flew by in a haze of exhilaration – and sometimes panic – while she stood there, patiently, absent–mindedly, doing exactly what she was told to do by Linda, the hairdresser, the makeup artist, the florist. Even though she had not shed another tear since her few private moments alone at the service station, Robin felt completely and utterly spent, unable to muster enough strength to fake the face of the happy flushed bride.

There was about an hour left until the service. The florist had just applied the finishing touches to the coronet in her hair and finally granted Robin a look in the mirror. For the first time all morning, Robin studied her reflection. Looking back at her was an unfamiliar, beautifully painted face; red–gold wavy hair crowned by white roses of Yorkshire framed the delicate features. But this was not what Robin saw. Instead, she stared – shocked – at the strangely familiar, haunted expression. It made her uncomfortable; the image of an inadvertent memory, slowly forming at the back of her head, creeping into her consciousness. Robin saw the image of a haunted bride, a bride showing an expression of grief and loss and loneliness unlike any other face Robin had – until this very instant – ever seen before; sent to Strike on a morning that felt like ages ago, as a taunting reminder that now, after sixteen years together, he and the sad woman were irrevocably separate people.

Robin turned away. She could not stand to see herself like this, to compare herself to Strike's ex, to detect the same haunted expression of profound sadness, the same loss that she was so desperately trying to forget. And all shared sorrow notwithstanding, Robin was still forced to admit that she did not, could never compare to the beautiful woman in the picture, to Charlotte Campbell–Ross. She had, after all, never been that close to Cormoran. But, just like Charlotte, the connection she had felt with the detective, was now broken, irretrievably impaired; she, too, had to live with the memories of a devastating loss etched onto her features, traces of a lost – and, in her case, never fulfilled – love. She, too, had to continue with a husband that she, ultimately, did not want.

"Robin, dear, are you feeling alright?"

Linda, who had seen the florist off, had returned to notice that Robin's spirits – while she had never shown the excitement for wedding preparations that most brides–to–be exhibited – had reached a new low. This was surely more than mere wedding jitters. It seemed almost impossible, but her already distraught daughter appeared to be more distressed with every minute that her grand entrance into the church moved closer.

"Are you sure you want to do this? There's no shame in calling it off, you know," she tried to reassure Robin once again, hoping to make her see that it was not worth making such a fundamental commitment if she didn't really want to. Linda did not have a good feeling about her daughter marrying Matthew. Although she had known him since he had been a teenager and she knew he could be a sweet boy if he cared to be, she had also witnessed his growing tendency to be domineering. So, she had watched, with some concern that Robin, generally a person eager to please and longing for a harmonic home, had been increasingly tagging along with Matthew, instead of making her own life's choices. Only in recent months, after her move to London, had she tentatively begun to actively shape her own life. And she was not at all pleased by the suspicion that it was exactly this development that had been the cause for so much conflict between the couple.

She had tried to say as much when they'd gone to Harrogate on Friday to buy new shoes. The fact alone that Robin had obviously not spent the return money on new bridal shoes was enough for Linda to suspect that something was wrong; together with what she knew to be insincere excitement for her own wedding, Linda was convinced that Cormoran was somehow at the core of her daughter's distress. She just was unsure about the extent of the problem – but it seemed so very unlikely that their professional falling–out could be the cause for all this. Yet, each of her tactful attempts to get to the bottom of this were blocked by a stubborn Robin.

"It's nowt... I'm perfectly fine… just feeling a bit funny, that's all. But I guess that's normal, considering…"

Standing up, determined not to look one bit like the image of the desperate bride that haunted her memory, the spectre that had looked out of the mirror, Robin changed the subject and asked for her bouquet. Linda hurried away to get the flowers out of the fridge and Robin stooped to slide on the pair of cream–coloured shoes they had bought yesterday. In her mind rose another unwanted memory – Strike's reaction to that vision of a bride in agony.

 _"Just delete it."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Been trying to think of something colourful for the season**  
 **Pull the wool over the gullible for no reason**

 **Joining the Dots, Arctic Monkeys**

Depressed by her own reflection, but determined to chase away the ghosts of her past, Robin cherished her last moment of privacy. Even through all her heart–felt misery at the loss of a friend, she still had a burning curiosity to check for news of the Shacklewell Ripper. While she was not at all convinced by Strike's implication that Brockbank, after all, might be the killer – it just seemed strangely at odds with his predilection for preying on young girls (and what was the church connection Carver had come up with, she wondered) – Robin felt anxious at the slightest possibility that she had let a serial killer escape.

These past two days she had barely ever had time to herself. A gleeful Matthew had been her ubiquitous shadow, using every opportunity to hug her, embrace her, displaying a clingy attitude towards her – something, Robin couldn't help but admit, she had found thoroughly irritating. And Linda, resolute that Robin finally show some enthusiasm for the things that were left to be done, kept her constantly busy. Without a single solitary moment to analyse her current situation – let alone to check her phone for news – she felt that this weekend was a depressing reminder of what her future was going to be like. Thoroughly exhausted as she was, though, she just went along with it, unable to burden her emotionally strained psyche with yet another conflict.

In the distance, Robin heard the clock of St. Mary's strike. There was still about half an hour left until she would have to leave for the ceremony.

Sitting here in her strangely unfamiliar room that once used to be her comfort, her sanctuary, these last few moments alone felt like balm to Robin's state of anxiousness and sadness. Trying to ignore the reasons for her low mood, she realised that now, at last, she would be able to check her mobile. She was frantically scrambling through her holdall, when Linda came back with the bouquet of white roses.

"Looking for something, love?"

Robin squinted her eyes, brows furrowed. "Can't seem to find my phone…" Why was this bothering her so much?

"No problem, I'll just call it," Linda offered.

Both women listened attentively for the phone to sound. When it finally vibrated, Robin produced the mobile out of the pocket of the jacket she had worn two days ago, on their trip up to Masham.

 _Oh yes_ , she mused absentmindedly; after Matt had returned to the car, she had stuffed the mobile back into the jacket, and then – when it got too hot – had shoved the whole thing into the holdall. Flipping over her phone, she saw Linda's missed call. Going briefly into her history to click away "Linda missed call", she froze.

Linda's call sat there at the top of a list that was entirely empty. Was there something wrong with her phone?

A memory rose from the back of her mind. She saw Matthew standing up from his chair in the service station, her mobile in his hand, apparently phoning his dad, but the black screen clearly betraying his lie. Robin felt queasy, realisation dawning. Matt asking for her passcode; her, being far too distressed to object, him walking away with the phone under the pretext about looking something up for the honeymoon, leaving her to muse on her own unhappiness, while he was deleting her call history. There was only one reason, she knew, why he would have done something so reckless, so extreme. Cormoran must have called.

The sudden elation at the undeniable truth of her discovery was followed, instantly, by a feeling of hopelessness and disbelief. Hopelessness because – if Strike had called without receiving an answer – he must have decided not to call again, thus robbing her of the last chance to make up. Disbelief, because Robin would have never imagined that Matt would go this far. Not only belittling her dreams but actively sabotaging her life's choices to suit himself. Robin felt the hot clutches of repressed anger tightening in her chest. Matthew had driven away the one man – and flashes of despair and regret gave rise to an irrational wish– who she wanted to be the one waiting for her at the altar. Gripping rage came at last, spreading through her limbs, rendering her almost numb, aching to find release.

"Darling, Robin, what's wrong? You look terrible!" Linda was shocked by Robin's blanched face and livid expression. Never before had she seen her daughter quite like this.

"Where's Matthew? I need to speak to him." Robin managed through gritted teeth. Linda checked her watch.

"Er… He must have left his parents' house for church just a few minutes ago."

Right, church. How was she supposed to marry a man who – as she now knew – had sabotaged everything she ever cared for?

 _Don't you care for Matthew then?_ A tiny voice said at the back of her head. _Do you leave your boyfriend of nine years at the altar, on nothing but a hunch that Cormoran might have called? Cormoran, who doesn't love you like Matthew does. He probably never wanted you back to begin with. He probably just called to say he found someone new, and didn't want you to find out the wrong way. He was just being nice._

"I, I need to ask him something," Robin managed, desperately trying to keep the rage and insecurities bubbling up under control.

"Well, why don't you just give him a call, then?" asked an ever pragmatic Linda, perplexed at the sudden change in her daughter.

"No, I need to talk to him, face to face," Robin insisted. She remembered how deftly Matthew had denied his affair with Sarah, and that she had only been able to spot the lie because his expression had betrayed him.

"I suppose... if we leave right away, we could catch him before church. But we'd be awfully early..."

Hurrying down to the car where her father Michael already stood waiting, they quickly sped off towards St Mary's. They managed to catch up with the groomsman's car at the brazen gates leading into the green churchyard. Ignoring her mum casting worried looks and her dad muttering "Isn't that supposed to be bad luck?", the bride stormed out and ran over to an astonished Matthew, looking ever the part of the dashing bridegroom in his smart morning suit.

"Robin? Wow, you look–but, I'm not supposed to see you before the wedding! It's bad luck!" he exclaimed nervously.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" she said quietly, but determinedly. "Just a quick word in private," she added.

"Why do you want to talk to me now?" Matthew seemed taken aback. Talking to her _now_ did not at all seem like a good idea to him.

Robin glanced at Matthew's father who was hovering in the background, mouth set in a displeased line.

"It's important, and I'd much rather do this where nobody's listening in on us."

Apprehensive about what was about to come, Matt focused on keeping a mixture of concern and confusion on his features and followed Robin round the corner. Of course, he had instantly guessed that this had to be about the phone call. He had known that, at some point, the deleted call history would have to come up, and that by then he needed a believable excuse. So, he was prepared. He would not let her outwit him again, the painful memory of their fateful confrontation about his and Sarah's unfortunate history rising in his mind.

They both went a few steps into the large churchyard with its old, historic monuments, standing out of view in the shadows of the large dark green beech hedge.

"So," Matthew started, "what's so important, that you would jinx our wedding?" Robin studied his features for a second, before she inquired

"What did you do with my phone at the service station?"

"I called my dad, I told you that!" Matt replied, slightly confused at her question. Was this not about the caller history?

"So, you phoned your dad, and then?" Robin was careful to let him retell his side of the story, before confronting him on the bits that obviously did not add up.

"Well," Matt started, feigning embarrassment, "while I called him, you had another call coming in…" Taking time to watch her expression he went on, "it was Strike."

Why didn't Robin seem surprised at this discovery? Matthew panicked internally. Had Strike not owned up to his promise that he would not call again? _That lying bloody bastard!_ But no, he knew, from Robin's endless stories, that Strike would not go back on his word. And anyway – Matthew tried to calm himself – he had blocked the number.

"He left you a message and," again hesitating to throw in some more embarrassment, "I listened to it."

Encouraged by Robin's silent and patient demeanour, he went on, now pretending to be angry and concerned.

"Well, I thought it was bloody cheeky of him to call you at all after how he'd treated you. But with the voicemail, where he then just told you again, that he had found somebody else, and he just wanted to let you know that he had forwarded you the last paycheck, I felt it would do you no good to have all that trigger your sadness again."

This, he found, was a plausible thing for a caring fiance to do. Keeping her safe, avoiding a trigger situation. He had, continuing his story, therefore deleted the call and the voicemail; and, in order for her not to suspect anything, had erased the caller log for good measure.

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have done that" he apologised, and he truly felt a pang of guilt underneath his righteousness. "But I just didn't know what to do… you were so unhappy all the time, and I didn't want this to ruin our weekend."

Robin, listening attentively and watching him closely, sensed that there was definitely some truth to what Matthew had come up with. That the story was made up, she was sure; he had not telephoned his father when he had walked away with the dark phone in his hand. Instead, he had probably seen Strike's call while she was in the bathroom, and had been about to deal with it when she had returned.

Whether Matt had talked to Strike, or – as he claimed – had only deleted a message, was now entirely pointless. The crucial fact was that Strike had called, and had not called again. And had she not herself suspected him wanting to let her down easy? The newspaper had been a far too crass way of bringing their partnership of one and a half years to an end, however wrongly she might have acted by (accidentally) confronting Brockbank.

Facing the mundane but uncomfortable truth of this final mystery, Robin was once more left with nothing but the familiar void inside of her. She had, Robin now realised, been harboring a foolish hope. Hope, that Cormoran would come back, despite all that had happened. But it had not, after all, been Matthew's fault that Strike had not bothered to call again.

Too exhausted, too weak to pick herself up from this final crushing disappointment, she followed Matthew back to the gate where her father was waiting for her, while her groom hurried into the church, anxious to prevent anyone from realising that he – unfortunately – had already seen his bride.


	4. Chapter 4

**From the smoke in your hair**  
 **To the blood in your bruise**  
 **And the bows on the shoes you kicked off**  
 **I'm joining the dots**  
 **I'm joining the dots**

 **Arctic Monkeys, Joining the dots**

She was surprised how well she had managed it through the service so far. The vicar had a patient and soothing demeanour, and Robin gladly strove to imitate his attitude of saintly proficiency. All her attention was focused on doing the right thing at the right time, not missing a word, or an action, careful to not let her quavering determination slip between her fingers. Matthew had been beaming at the sight of her walking down the aisle, a vision of summer beauty, as though their previous altercation was all but forgotten. His appreciation was almost enough to make her forget her misery. There was no trace of his irritation at her last minute confrontation, Matthew was just glad and slightly smug that they had made it to the finish line – without that big ugly bastard.

Only once, half–way through the service, had Robin fretted over a possible disturbance to her countenance.

"First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now."

Robin was shocked. She had forgotten about this part of the ceremony and was now briefly panicked that Linda might say something. Relieved, at first, that no one objected –even though she had noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Sarah Shadlock stirring uncomfortably next to her boyfriend Tom – she was then hit by the even more dreadful realisation that Strike had, after all, not shown up. She chastised herself for, despite everything, indulging in such a childish hope, designed to highlight her misery. She was too preoccupied to notice that Linda had, indeed, been nervously shifting in her seat, tucked between her husband Michael and her son Martin, worried eyes directed at the sad face of her only daughter. But the congregation remained perfectly silent, and the service continued.

 _Concentrate on what's before you. Matthew is all you have left. He loves you. Be grateful. You must plow on to the finish line._

Content with the congregation sitting in silent agreement, the minister dutifully went on:  
"The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts."

Robin felt that her heart must stop. Was it right to swear faithfulness to Matthew, when she knew, buried deep down, that she loved another? But no, she should stop kidding herself. Strike had not called again, would never call again, and she should stop kidding herself.

Her cold resolution notwithstanding, she felt utterly defeated as the officiant continued, "therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now."

 _You can do this. Matthew is all you have left. Think of Linda, think of Dad. They supported you; you chose, now you have to see it through._ But her thoughts kept returning to the one man, she so desperately wanted to keep out of her head, her heart. Her anguish made Robin blush.

Matthew, who was utterly unaware of the inner turmoil his bride–to–be was suffering, attributed her rosy cheeks to the vows they were about to give, glowing, eager to get on with the next part.

So, both remained silent, and the officiant continued.

"Do you, Matthew John Cunliffe, take this woman, Robin Venetia Ellacott, to be you lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do", Matt declared with firmness, voice echoing through the church, trying to catch the downcast eyes of his beautiful almost–wife, slightly annoyed by the sudden bang of the heavy church door.

Robin did not look up, but gazed steadily downwards onto her bouquet of white roses in her hands. Hearing Matthew make his declaration, strong and proud, made her even more uncertain as to how she could possibly muster the strength needed to get over the finish line. She knew what was about to happen, what she would have to commit to. But despite her resolution to do, to say what she must, she was not so sure if she could bring herself to say aloud the words that were expected of her. Words that would bind her to the man standing next to her, but were also the complete opposite off all she felt at this moment.

"Do you, Robin Venetia Ellacott, take this man, Matthew John Cunliffe, to be you lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death –"

"Oh shit!"

With a deafening clang, something toppled and – with the sound of a blustering arpeggio – came crashing down onto the hard stone floor. Matthew did not need to look up to instantly guess what had happened. He _knew_ , had always known something like this would happen. Robin, on the other side, could barely believe her ears. She, too, had instantly recognised the voice, but had looked up, incredulously, to grasp the enormous figure shuffling at the back of the church. Still, she could scarcely believe her own eyes. _What was Cormoran doing here?_

"Christ, I'm sorry," Strike gasped.

"– do you part", finished the vicar patiently.

Matt, realised right this moment that there would be conflict. He was livid. Why had he, of all people, come? But in all earnest he knew, had known all along, that there was only one reason, why – after all this time – after not being able to reach her by phone, Strike had made the trip up north to speak to Robin directly, uncertain whether she was even going to talk to him. Matthew was dead sure that this man he despised so wholeheartedly was in love with his Robin, _my wife_ , he thought coldly.

Robin on the other hand was brought alive by a new found energy, rushing through her numb limbs, electrifying her every fibre, and gave her the strength to say what must be said.

"I do," she declared in a ringing voice.

This was it. She was his now, Matthew thought, briefly triumphant. Expecting her eyes on him, Matthew stared back into the face of his wife. But Robin was barely aware of him. All service long she had been glum and depressed; a sign, so Matthew had thought guiltily, of her being sacked by Cormoran, his glee at her misfortune, and him telling her just before the service – inaccurately – that Strike had called for a final goodbye. He had tolerated her impassive demeanour as a sign of weakness and anxiousness, something that would pass soon enough – surely in the course of their special day in the company of friends and family.

But now, she was beaming, beauty and joy radiating from her body in an intensity he could almost feel.

Seeing her expression change so dramatically, not because of him – not because they were, finally, husband and wife, marking a happy ending to their nine years together and bringing one and a half years of exhausting changes to their dynamic to an end (all of which, Matthew mused darkly, anger creeping up in him, was the fault of the very man that had just ruined the service) – but at the sight of the large, dark figure Matthew hated and feared with all his heart. It was too much to take.

"What are you doing," he hissed at Robin.

As if awoken from a bad dream Robin looked back at Matthew, surprise and confusion blooming on her face. This was extraordinary. She _knew_ Strike. This was so absolutely out of character, for him to be making such dramatic appearance – or coming to her wedding at all, for that matter. She remembered how unwilling he had been just to RSVP a few weeks back. That he never had, she was sure of; despite everything, she had checked last night if there had ever been a note regarding his invitation. "I'm sorry, my dear," Linda had been thoroughly sympathetic when she told her daughter that no, Cormoran had not replied, not even to say he wasn't coming.

Curiously, ignoring Matthew, she studied Cormoran's face: the blue shadows around his nose made it apparent that it had just recently been broken and amended, the slits and bloodied lines in his face and his ear were clear indicators that a dramatic showdown had taken place.

She knew. The simple fact that Cormoran Strike was now standing here, battered and bloodied though he was, in this church in Masham, meant that the Shacklewell Ripper had – at long last – been caught!

This Robin concluded in an instant, detective skills and quick perception reawakened as the exhilarating sight of _him_ chased away the all–consuming sorrow that had been gripping her tightly and had rendered her impassive and unaware.

Overwhelming relief pervaded her. She could, after all, not be blamed for the continuing horrors of a monster as gruesome as the Shacklewell Ripper! And through all the relief and excitement, the next realisation hit her with the violent, but delightful force of an ocean wave: Strike stood there, anguished and embarrassed though he was, face red above the smashed arrangement of white flowers at his feet – but utterly alone. He had faced the Shacklewell Ripper and, instead of getting some much needed rest, instead of enjoying a weekend with his girlfriend Elin, he had travelled up north, to her wedding.

She did not stop to wonder just _how_ he had come here. He had chosen to do what he had not even done for his hauntingly beautiful girlfriend of sixteen years. He had come all this way, to see _her_ ; to stop her from making a terrible mistake. This she knew with the certainty of the avid investigator she was.


	5. Chapter 5

**And darling, if it's all the same to you** **  
****I'll have you to myself**

 **Joining the Dots, Arctic Monkeys**

For a few moments, time seemed to be standing still. Gazing at Cormoran, Robin was consumed by the glowing, overwhelming happiness that, yes, he had forgiven her. That he had come, after all that had happened, all this way to see her.

"What are you doing?" Matthew's furious voice interrupted her floating sense of timeless bliss. Ignoring her husband's infuriation she pondered.

Almost no time had passed since the crushing down of the flower arrangement and her becoming aware of Strike's sudden, dishevelled appearance. And the answering of the vicar's question.

 _What_ was _she doing?_

And then something shifted, jigsaw falling into place. Robin let the certainty of two truths, long suppressed, encompasse her: First, Strike was not just a friend to her, and second, he had not just come as a mere guest. This she knew.

She had witnessed his stubbornness, how he just let people go once he had decided to break with them. Even if he had never said it out loud, she perfectly knew that Strike wholeheartedly disapproved of her getting married to Matthew; because he disliked the accountant, because he knew that Robin could never truly be herself with him. Strike, however, would have never dared to say this to her face. He was far too respectful for that.

Memories of the past months flashed through her mind like flickering lights. Robin had seen his surly expression whenever she had turned up at the office tired after fighting with Matt the previous evening; she could still see his horrified face when she had told him about her fiancé's months of unfaithfulness; she now recalled in perfect clarity how Strike had tried to hide his anguish when she had shown up at the office after the bank holiday, engagement ring sparkling from her finger again.

Right from the start, Strike had pretended to like Matthew, when clearly he didn't – even after their first meeting in the Three Crowns, where Matt had been behaving like an arrogant sod, constantly talking about himself, preoccupied with showing off his best side. Back then, she had blamed Strike for making her think of Matt's behaviour as pompous and ignorant. How funny, she mused, that whenever she had seen a side in her fiancé she really did not like, she had always believed Strike responsible for a change in her perspective, when actually – and this dawned on Robin realised brutal honesty – she had then seen Matt for what he truly was: a pompous twit, only ever concerned about himself, about appearances.

Robin turned her gaze back to her new husband. She saw Matthew clearly now – possibly, for the first time.

Other memories were flooding her perception. She recalled how she had complained to her mother that no, Matt was not worried about her being sent a leg, even though he should have been; and no, he didn't want her to stop working because he was scared for her safety. But somebody else had been worried for her, had tried to keep her from working because he was terrified of losing her. Robin held her breath.

Either unaware, or perfectly unhinged by the sudden disturbance in the church that had created tension amongst the newly wedded couple, the vicar now reached for the rings, and continued, "Heavenly Father, by your blessing let these rings be to Robin Venetia and Matthew John a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, to remind them of the vow and covenant which they have made this day through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," some in the crowd responded, while many were still looking at the infuriated groom and a happier, but entirely bewildered looking bride.

"You lied to me," Robin stated, looking Matthew in the eyes.

"What?" Matthew whispered back, furious, but panicked that somebody might have overheard her.

"You lied to me," she repeated in a calm voice "when you told me your phone was dead and you had to call your dad about the honeymoon. You never phoned your father."

"Do we have to talk about this now?", he murmured irritated, anxious for her to keep her voice down.

The officiant, finally aware that something out of the ordinary was going on, gave them both a quizzical look.

"Would you both like to follow me to the vestry?"

"Absolutely not!" Matthew hissed, very intent on ignoring Robin's inquiries in order to continue as if nothing happened.

Upset that he hadn't even considered her opinion, because she would have like it very much, in fact, to sort this out without an audience, Robin went on there and then. This was far too important, and she would not get sidelined by him again.

"And this wasn't the only thing you lied about. Strike didn't call to let me down easy. He wouldn't have come all this way just to tell me that he hired someone else!"

Finally, this elicited a reaction out of Matthew. "For heaven's sake, Robin – it's our wedding! Yet here we are, and you're talking about _him_ again?" he hissed.

But Robin was having none of it. "So, you're not even denying lying to me about it? Manipulating me, controlling me to go along with what you think is best?" She couldn't stop herself now, voice slightly rising.

"No, Matt. This is not about Strike. It never was about Strike. This is about you not being able to support me, my wishes, my dreams. It's about you not accepting me, not loving me for who I am, or who I want to become."

Matthew just stood there, face red and angry, unable to think of anything to say.

Robin continued "This is horrible, and I truly wish I didn't have to come to this. But–" and she looked her almost–husband square in the face, squaring her shoulders "if you don't have any scruples about lying to me – on our wedding day even – to get me to do what you want; if you hate what I love–" she inhaled, anxious now, "how was this ever supposed to work?"

To this, Matthew had no answer. Turning to the vicar, she declared "I'm very sorry, father, but this ceremony cannot continue."

Robin felt a sense of elation that she had never felt before; an electrifying, liberating sensation that made her feel she could accomplish about everything right this instant, and she looked to the back of the church.

The agitated Strike, who had incredulously witnessed the altercation between bride and groom, captured Robin's blazing eyes and, in that moment, felt that never before had he been caught up by quite such a radiating, beautiful woman.


	6. Chapter 6

**You shout "Don't you leave me"**  
"Don't you leave this incomplete"

"I wanna know if this road  
Belongs to my eyes and only mine"

 **Honey Sweet, Blossoms**

"You've known all along that Brockbank was _not_ the Shacklewell Ripper? Even – even _then_?" While at first she had marvelled, even praised Strike for his clever discovery and capture of Donald Laing, Robin was – now that he had told her the whole story – beside herself with anger and frustration.

"Why would you do that to me?" She was struggling to keep her composure. "Letting me believe, all this time, that –that I'd be to blame if another young woman could be… could get..." Feeling her shaking voice betray her, she let her words trail off, turning away from Strike so he would not see the tears pooling in her eyes.

This was unbearable. Her partner - or so she had hoped, at least, that they would be going to be partners again–did not see her as equal, after all, but as a threat to their – to _his_ – investigation. Mustering all her will power she whispered, "So, that's it then. You just don't trust me, do you?"

Strike did not know what to say to that. He had known, of course he had known, that she would be angry at his revelation – and rightfully so. He still felt nothing but shame and self-loathing for the accusations he had thrown at her– that she had supposedly ruined not only the investigation but also his business, that she had let a potential serial killer get away –while she'd been standing there in the kitchen of her Eling flat, white-faced and horror-stricken, but still proud and stubborn because she had saved a child from a monster. In fact, he'd hoped she would let him feel some of the frustration he'd caused her because somehow, deep down, he felt he deserved it; because he'd shamed her, lied to her, desperate to conceal from her, from himself, what he could never admit to.

In telling her the truth (at least part of it) he had reckoned with rage and anger; he had not, however, foreseen this reaction, for Robin to be broken and utterly defeated –because she thought he did not trust her. How could she even think that? She knew him. Surely, she must've realised by now that he'd never had a working relationship like this before _. Course she doesn't,_ he scolded himself. _You never told her, you silly fucker_.

"Robin," he tried weakly "that's really not it." Desperately, he wracked his brain to find a way how to explain what could not be explained.

Looking at her standing there, distraught and unhappy, he was more than ever stung by the hurt and agony he had caused her.

"Course I trust you," said Strike. "Why on earth 'd you ever think otherwise?"

"So, why didn't you tell me the truth, then? Why did you shut me out?" she demanded, regaining some of her former stubbornness. "I mean, for six bloody days you _knew_ but you never once told me!"

Strike contemplated her features, standing there in her wedding dress, red gold hair shining in the bright July sun, framing her head held high, chin set in that familiar line that showed she would not be backing down until she'd had all of it. Again, he tried to go for the half-truth.

"I just wanted you out of the way. You'd already been hurt before. And _I knew_ Laing was targeting you. I just couldn't let you get hurt again. You barely were out of the hospital. And the whole fucked up situation was my fault to begin with. You were still my responsibility, and I didn't want you of all people to get caught in the crossfire. And besides–" he hesitated, "It was a far better plan to have someone else play the bait."

Robin's face fell. _Shit._ What was it he'd said that was wrong?

"So, what's the point then?" she asked, looking at her feet, voice small. Strike followed her gaze and noticed absentmindedly that she was not wearing the Jimmy Choos she had presented him so proudly just a few weeks ago.

"Sorry?"

"What's the point then, in my being your partner? If you set me aside at the slightest possibility that something might happen to me. If you use another woman to lure a suspect because you think I can't take it. If you don't tell me about OUR investigation? If you don't even tell me WHAT THE HELL's going on and let me decide for myself what I do and what I do not want to do - WHAT'S THE BLOODY POINT THEN?" With every sentence, her tone had gotten louder and more accusatory, fierce eyes glowering at him.

Strike did not know what to say to this. She was right, of course. After all, there was no logical explanation why he shouldn't have told her, why he shouldn't have explained to her, why he shouldn't have used Robin for his plan.

Her rage had made her brave, brave enough to press him on something she dreaded more than anything. But she needed to know.

"You said to me, once, that you needed a partner who could share the long hours, who was just as dedicated to the job as you are. You knew the job was dangerous. And I know that back then you would have expected me be to be part of it. But now you just go ahead and cast me aside at the first sight of danger. So, what's changed?"

Strike felt exposed.

"Why did you do that?" she pressed on. "Why did you cut me out? Is it–" her whole body was trembling now, voice thick; but she needed to know. "Is it because I was raped? Is that why you think I can't take it? Because you think I'm too weak, Cormoran?"

The soft sound of his name called out in her pleading, desperate voice struck him. How could he conceal his weakness, while she had let him see her worst fears?

"No, Robin." Strike hesitated. "No, I don't think you're weak. In fact–" his voice caught in his throat, but the her raw, vulnerable expression made him march on, "I'm the weak one here. I couldn't stand the idea of you getting hurt again. I couldn't– I was–" and he looked straight into her eyes, "afraid of losing you."

Her hurt expression made way, first, for a look of confusion, then, realisation dawning, for a deep blush spreading across the delicately exposed neckline. Embarrassed, Robin glanced down at her ringless hands.

"I see," she muttered finally. "Well, I suppose that might be a reason. But..." and now she was in full possession of her daring, stubborn self again, "but, does that mean, then – you being here and all – that you want me back?"

Cormoran watched her attentively.

"As a partner, I mean?"

The ambiguity of the word hovered between them, atmosphere thick with unexpressed sentiments they were not yet ready to admit. This was not the place, nor the time.

"Course I want you back," he grunted. And, with a smirk, he added, "If I'm not allowed to fish, you aren't either, remember?"

At this, Robin could not help but laugh. As relief and delight at his confession washed over her in an unknown intensity, she felt that – despite the disappointment of all that had happened barely an hour ago – this might be the happiest day of her life after all.

And, recalling the blissful hours spent together in the Land Rover, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the unmistakable feeling that this, finally, really, felt like the beginning of a _true_ partnership.


End file.
